Gemotions

The antique dealer, Mrs. Gable, always dressed in sensible shoes and floral dresses, and she'd somehow afforded a house on Elm Street. A very modest, almost dilapidated house, as far as I knew. Then, last Tuesday, I saw her loading paintings into a nondescript van – Rembrandts and Van Goghs, if my art history lessons served me correctly. My heart jumped into my throat. Suddenly, the quiet neighbor I'd shared gardening tips with felt… dangerous.

A coldness settled in my stomach. I excused myself from the porch swing, abandoning the lemonade I'd poured. The sun, which had minutes ago felt warm on my skin, now felt like a spotlight. My hands, normally steady, now fumbled with the latch on my screen door.

Later that evening, the shadows in my living room seemed to lengthen and twist, taking on menacing shapes. Every creak of the house, every rustle of leaves against the window, sounded like an intruder. I kept checking the locks, over and over, until the metal felt cold beneath my fingers. Sleep eluded me; I watched the street from the safety of my armchair, my breath catching in my chest at every passing car.